‘Ancient bloody history.’ He laughed. ‘We call it classics. Come on, let’s go.’
At the town hall they found nothing about Rosalie, so he asked if she’d like a guided tour of Valletta. She nodded, grateful to have a guide. ‘I’d like to place postcards in some of the shop windows asking if anybody knows of my aunt’s whereabouts or has any information about her. I’ve already made some.’
‘Do you have a photograph of her?’
‘Sadly not.’
‘Pity. Never mind, we’ll stop at shops as we go round. Motorcycle all right? I haven’t got a car. And anyway, with the rubble still piled up, bike is best.’
She smiled, relieved to have found someone willing to help her. ‘Perfect. I’d love to grasp the layout of the Valletta streets and learn where everything is.’ And so, riding pillion was how she very quickly got to know her way from FortSt Elmo to the Customs House, and from there to the Upper Barrakka Gardens. He pointed out the library, the police headquarters, and the way from the bombed Opera House to the Hastings Gardens and the Phoenicia hotel and then back to the British Hotel where she and Jack were staying. And he picked out half a dozen shops where, when she asked, the owners were happy to display her postcards in their windows.
Later, when he took her to see the cliffs, the beaches, and the little inland villages, she fell in love with the island. She hoped Rosalie had too, and that she had treasured the gorgeous blue sky, the dusty white tracks, and the shimmering turquoise seas enough to have stayed. You could see the sea from almost everywhere and when Florence felt the warm breeze on her cheeks and breathed in the scent of salt and seaweed, she imagined Rosalie doing the same.
They sped past farms surrounded by fields kept safe within dry stone walls and beyond the walls, prickly pear and carob trees. Cam was a knowledgeable guide, and the history of the island fascinated her. As they went inland her mind wandered back in time to when the Order of the Knights of St John were given the island by Charles V. Everything comes and goes, she thought, and took another breath of sweet-smelling air. ‘Oh, to be a fly on the wall of history,’ she said.
Cam laughed and she liked him. He was one of those people who really seemed to relish being alive. And despite teaching ‘ancient bloody history’ he was light-hearted and fun to be with.
When Jack returned to their hotel room just after she got back herself, she was still trying to brush the dust from her hair.
‘You managed to get out, then?’
She twisted round to look at him. ‘I did and it was marvellous.’ She went on to tell him all about Cam.
‘But no hint of Rosalie?’
She glanced away. ‘No.’
‘Something else is bothering you. What is it?’
Florence sighed. She wanted to find Rosalie for her mother’s sake, but her chest tightened a bit when she thought about maybe uncovering something dark or unsettling.
‘Nothing,’ she said.
‘Well, if you’re sure … I have news …’
‘Don’t keep me in suspense.’
‘Bit of a lucky fluke but I have found us somewhere to stay.’ He picked her up and whirled her around. ‘I saw an advertisement and followed it up.’
‘Put me down, you heathen. Where is it?’
‘Quite near here and we can move in tomorrow.’
CHAPTER 45
The airy second-floor apartment in Valletta was an absolute gem. It belonged to an English banker who had shipped back to London when the war began and was not planning on returning just yet. Jack had been told about it when he visited the planning officer who had placed the advertisement for someone to oversee the work, and it had seemed just the ticket. Once fabulous, with high ornate ceilings and large windows, it had been partly damaged during the war but was still habitable. Some of the plasterwork needed repairing and one of its balconies was hanging dangerously. They had the place rent-free with the proviso that Jack supervised and aimed to have it finished within three months.
A couple of large bedrooms overlooked the street of baroque sandstone townhouses, each with its coloured woodengallarija,while a bathroom, kitchen and living space had views of the courtyard at the back, whichseemed to be where everyone hung their washing. The owner had wired cash over to the planning officer, who would release funds to the builders on receipt of invoices.
‘I love it,’ said Florence when she first saw it.
‘It’s pretty fantastic,’ said Jack. ‘Just don’t try stepping onto the balcony in the second bedroom.’
They settled in and the next day he asked about her plans for finding Rosalie and whether she needed his help today. She felt excited to be out of the hotel and getting going on this properly, even if there had been no clues so far.
‘No. I’ll be fine. I’ve got somewhere else I want to see before I try to work out what to do and the order in which to do it. How about you?’
‘I’m meeting someone at a small church. Apparently it’s in Rabat, not far from a place called Mdina.’
